After I send the message to myself, establishing a record of my thoughts, I notice the chat bubble in the lower right corner. Oh, God. Somehow, the program showed me as online, and Alec sent me a message.
Don’t read it. Just delete it.
I can’t. As much as I want to...as much as I know Ishould, it’s all evidence. But he doesn’t need to know that I read the message. I have a program that blocks read receipts. Once that’s active, I click on the notification and try to ignore the icy ball of panic in the pit of my stomach.
My dearest Quint,
It’s been over a year since we’ve seen one another, and this message is long overdue. I had the best intentions. But that doesn’t excuse what I did. I thought I knew better than the doctors. That no one could take care of you like I could. I felt horrible knowing you got hurt because of me, and everything I did...it was because I loved you.
After your brother took you from me, I was angry. But then I got help. I can see how much I hurt you now. And I’m sorry. I know it’s too little, too late, but I miss you. You were the best thing to ever happen to me, and I wish I hadn’t screwed it all up.
My sincerest apologies,
Alec
Suddenly, I’m a shuddering mess on the floor, my arms wrapped around my knees. The position stretches my tight muscles, but it’s all I can do when I’m paralyzed, trapped in my memories of my time withhim.
What the hell is he doing? And does he really think I’m going to believe his apology?
Sociopaths, psychopaths, narcissists, and many individuals with Antisocial Personality Disorder often don’t feel genuine emotions. They can’t. They are, however, experts at mimicking the emotions of others. They always say just the right thing at the right time because they’re often incredibly smart and experts at reading their victims.
Before the night I planned to break up with Alec for good—the night everything changed—my therapist warned me repeatedly not to believe any crocodile tears Alec might shed. Being a sociopath isn’t like having depression or anxiety. You can’t take a pill and make the condition go away—or even control it. Some people do learn to live without the ability to understand or feel emotions. A rare few even managenotto be a danger to others. They have very strict rules they follow every day of their lives. When you don’t feel pain, remorse, anguish, or joy, it’s too easy to think of life as one giant game designed for you and you alone.
Alec is up to something. I know he signed me up for Rodeo Vibe. How else would they have gotten my name and address? And now...this? If he thinks I’ll believeanythinghe says, he’s an idiot. And Alec is not an idiot.
Focus, Q. You’re safe here. The cameras, the security system, the bars on the windows, the locks...
But am I? He knows where I live. That I’m in Seattle. Hell, he probably knows that I live alone. That I’m vulnerable.
Clementine crawls into my lap, and I rock back and forth for an hour with her until I’m steady enough to get to my feet. If for no other reason than she needs dinner, and I won’t deny her a meal—ever.
But no more than five minutes after she finishes the bowl of kibble, my security alarm goes off. Oh, God. What if…what if he was just toying with me with that email? He could be here right now.
Clementine bolts for the bedroom, probably to hide under the bed, while I lurch over to my computer. The alarm’s coming from the rear exterior security door, but when I check the motion sensor and camera, everything’s quiet. Rewinding five minutes, I replay the video. Nothing. Not even a rat scavenging in the dumpster or a stray dog.
Resetting the system, I force a deep breath. It was just a false alarm. A glitch.
And then it goes off again. I’ve been watching the video the whole time. Nothing’s moved outside. It’s not even windy. Maybe the batteries need to be replaced? I just changed them a month ago, but that’s the only explanation that doesn’t leave me panicked.
This is the best system money can buy. Emerald City Security has contracts all over the country, and Connor’s used them for his job more than once—not that he’ll tell me exactly how or why. But I vetted them thoroughly.
It has to be the batteries. I hate to get on the step stool and try to balance when I’m so shaky the world feels like it’s vibrating, but I can do this.
Ten minutes later, batteries in my pocket, I check the cameras one last time. Courage is hard to come by—especially after reading Alec’s message—but what choice do I have?
The alley’s deserted, only a low hum of crowd noise from the Pike/Pine corridor a few blocks away. It’s not much after 8:00 p.m., and the real parties won’t get started until close to midnight.
The security door sensor is up high—on the top inside corner of the metal monstrosity, and I brace myself on the wall as I take one step, then another onto the step stool.
The doctors warned me that reaching over my head and arching my spine would be difficult for the rest of my life, but so far, I think I’m okay. Until I pull off the thin, plastic cover that hides the sensor battery. An electric shock zings down my arm, and a brackish dust burns my eyes. The first cough makes my equilibrium go to shit, and I miss the first step, landing hard on my weaker left leg.
The concrete rushes up to meet my ass, and my back spasms hard enough to draw a strained cry from my throat. I’m reduced to crawling back inside, and as soon as I slam the door and flip the only lock I can reach from the ground, I give up any semblance of pride and drop my head into my hands.
I’m a helpless, bumbling,invalid. And now, I’m so terrified, I don’t know if I can get up, let alone go back out there to try again.
It’s just a battery. What man can’t change a damn battery? The alarm goes off for a third time, setting my nerves on edge. I don’t know anyone in Seattle besides Manny and my housekeeper. Manny’s in Atlanta, and I can’t call my housekeeper this late.
“You know how to find me.”
